The Ice Bath
by SingingInTheRaiin
Summary: Season 8, the trials take their toll on Sam, and he ends up passed out on the floor of the hotel room during the search for Metatron. Takes place after the cut to black. (one shot)


So maybe that one hotel manager was immortal, or at the very least 'blessed' with longevity. But that didn't mean that God's secretary was bumming around this place. The old guy kept giving Dean strange looks as he walked around the small room, briefly glancing over everything just in case there was something here that held some significance.

At the rate Sam was declining, it seemed like the most likely answer here was that the kid really was just delirious, and had dragged them both here because of some fever dream. But he'd been right about them not having anything else to go off of, and at this point, it seemed easier to at least humor Sam than to try and fight with him.

Once Dean was pretty sure that he'd used up all of the old guy's hospitality, he quickly thanked him for the history lesson, and then ducked outside. He breathed in the fresh air, and wondered why it couldn't be nice out more often.

He slid into his car, but before he could start the engine, his phone rang. He saw Sam's name, and answered immediately. "Sam?" There was no answer, not even the sound of breathing, and Dean furrowed his eyebrows. "Sammy? Did you just butt dial me?" He kept his tone light, but with the way the trials were affecting Sam, Dean couldn't stop the wave of fear that fluttered through his stomach. Dean closed his eyes for a moment, and let out a tired sigh. "Sam, I'll be right there. And I swear to Go- to someone- that this better just be a butt dial." Then he hung up, and raced back to the casino slash hotel that they were staying in for the time being.

Dean walked down the hallway, and his adrenaline spiked when he realized that the door was unlocked. He drew his gun and then shoved it open. It took less than a second for him to see Sam lying on the floor, looking like a puppet whose strings had been snipped. Dean shoved his gun back into his pants as he dropped to his knees next to Sam. The phone was lying on the floor next to him, and Dean pressed his lips together in a flat line.

He could feel himself wanting to panic, but he knew that that wouldn't be of any help in this situation. His palms were sweating, though, and he could feel his heart beating faster. But he refused to lose Sam now. Not after all the shit they'd been through together. Not when they still had so much left that they needed to do together. He reached out to brush aside some of Sam's hair, and his eyes widened when he realized that Sam was really burning up. He'd claimed before that this wasn't a fever, but that's certainly what it felt like at the moment, even if it wasn't an ordinary virus causing it. He fumbled for the thermometer he'd bought, and a quick swipe across Sam's sweat covered forehead showed 107 degrees fahrenheit. Dean swore loudly under his breath, but Sam didn't even twitch.

Dean moved to an awkward crouch, and then hooked his arms beneath Sam's armpits to try and drag him towards the bathroom. He grunted at the exertion of it. Even though Sam was thin and unhealthy looking at the moment, he was still a big guy with a lot of muscle, and he was damn heavy. But Dean had to be able to move him, or else he'd be the biggest failure of a brother around.

It took a lot of work, but he eventually managed to pull Sam into the bathroom, and even managed to maneuver him into the tub. His arms and legs ached from the effort of moving around all that dead weight. No- not dead. Sam wasn't dead. He wasn't going to die.

Dean turned on the cool water in the tub, knowing that it wasn't even worth trying to get Sam out of his gross and sweaty clothes. But the cool water didn't seem to do anything, and Dean hurried out of the bathroom to try and figure out what to do. He could try forcing some tylenol down Sam's throat, but it was probably already too late for that to be of much help. He needed to bring the temperature down, though.

Ice! Wait- was ice the thing that people were or were not supposed to use to lower fevers? Dean suddenly couldn't remember. He was supposed to be the expert at taking care of Sammy and he couldn't even figure out how to do that much. But this wasn't about him, it was about Sam.

He decided that he may as well go for the ice, because if he did nothing, he was pretty sure that Sam would die for real, and they were long past the point of being able to pop back from death every time it happened. Dean ran at high speed through the hotel until he found the kitchen. There was no one in there, which made sense considering the complete lack of customers. If anyone complained, he'd pay them back later, but for now, he yanked open the freezer and stacked several bags of ice in his arms.

The weight and coldness of the ice seeped through his sleeves and felt like it was burning him, but he didn't have time to find a better way to carry it. He ran back to their room and kicked the door the rest of the way open, not caring if he broke it. He dropped to his knees in the bathroom, not caring about the painful way they cracked against the tiles. He split open the bags, and poured them out into the water. He figured that Sam was submerged enough to be safe from getting too badly bruised by the ice. And either way, a few bruises on his brother was a lot more acceptable than the idea of his brother being dead.

Once he'd finished pouring out all of the ice that he'd grabbed, Dean pressed his hand to Sam's forehead to see if it had gone down at all. But since his hand was so cold that he could barely feel it, he was also unable to tell if the temperature had changed. He went back out to the main part of the room to grab the thermometer from where he'd dropped it on the floor. He went back to the bathroom to use it on Sam, and found no change.

Dean whispered a quiet apology to Sam, and then leaned forward to dunk his head under the icy water. It was hard to say for sure if drowning would be a better or worse death than burning up from a fever, but Dean had to try something. Anything. If he was lucky, Sam's instincts would kick in and he wouldn't gulp down the water. Not that the Winchesters had ever been known for being particularly good fortuned people.

Several long seconds passed where nothing happened, and Dean was ready to pull Sammy back up, not wanting his brother to actually drown. He couldn't even see any bubbles rising to the surface to indicate that Sam was doing anything down there. Dean was really starting to freak out, and he could feel his eyes burning from the tears that were building up and getting ready to fall. Even though he knew it would be pointless, he was ready to start praying to every angel that he knew of-

And then Sam burst up from the water, his hair plastered to his skull, and his clothes clinging to him like a second skin. He coughed up the bits of water he'd breathed in, but it didn't seem to be that much. Dean reached over, ready to pull Sam into a tight hug, not caring if it would mean getting his own clothes soaked by the freezing water, but Sam shoved him away, and Dean pushed down just how much that hurt, because he was just too happy about the fact that Sam was actually alive and breathing, even if he still didn't look that great. He listened as Sam babbled about Metatron, unable to pay attention to anything other than his beautiful, breathing, alive, baby brother.


End file.
